I Have Jags

I just learned this word while reading a magazine article about a local foodie. A jag is apparently an obsession, or as dictionary.com put it, "a period of unrestrained indulgence in an activity; spree; binge." This seems to describe me quite well - much to the chagrin of many of my loved ones. I get on jags, I collect them, I circulate my jags and give them time to breathe. Like shoes. If I stick with a jag too long, it loses some kind of magic for me, but coming upon a fresh jag (or better, coming back to a pleasurable old jag) keeps things lively.

So, my local-food jag isn't necessarily gone, it's just getting freshened. I'm proud of the local-foods movement for taking the prize as Oxford American Dictionary's Word of the Year. I'm still keeping an eye on where my food comes from, and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that most of the food I buy is already local - as long as I shop at the co-op, the farmer's market, and my CSA, it's quite easy actually. Trips to Whole Foods or Trader Joe's or (eek!) Safeway throw the whole local-food thing out of whack - it's nearly impossible to find things made locally and, even when I do, I know that it can't truly count as local because even if the food was made by my next-door neighbor, it's still traveled an average of 1500 miles to a distribution center in Austin or Monrovia or Salt Lake City before coming back to my neighborhood.

But back to my point about jags. Because folks, Mama's got a brand new jag. And it's an old one, one you might remember me blogging about this past spring. But I believe I have finally found my knitting legs, so to speak, after many attempts. I credit Debbie Stoller and her awesome book, Stitch'n Bitch, for me finally understanding how to tangle yarn artistically. And I thank Lisa and Martha for inspiring me.

Reconnecting with knitting has reconnected me with the deep feminine urge to create useful things, and to do it beautifully. And to do it for others. I can't stop thinking of things I'd like to make for people close to me - right now I have no plans to keep any current projects for myself, and this is a really pleasurable departure from my usual narcissism. Thus, I have decided to make as many Christmas gifts as I can this year, given my schedule (in rehearsals for maybe the best play ever and preparing to go tropical for the holidays with Descartes) and how quickly my fingers can work. There will be sewing, baking, slicing, dicing, and yes, knitting. None of it can be displayed here until after gifts have been given out (who wants to spoil the surprise?) but believe you me, my camera will be busy documenting the fun. Isn't it lovely when a gift can bring pleasure to the gifter and the gifted?

What's your latest jag?

Which Jane Austen Character Are You?

You scored as Elinor Dashwood. As Marianne's older sister, Elinor lives at the other end of the emotional spectrum. She rarely reveals her intense feelings and is more concerned with being honest and loyal than having what she deserves. Even though her intentions are pure, she sets herself up for loss by constantly placing other people before her own needs. Overall, Elinor is gentle and rational but is just as capable of radical emotions (despite her withholding them) as her sister.

My close runner-up was Elizabeth Bennet. Elinor and Elizabeth are probably my favorite Jane Austen characters, for their internal strength, intelligence and self-awareness. Another favorite of mine, Anne Elliott from Persuasion, wasn't part of the quiz. Funny that Elinor and Anne are very quiet, sometimes painfully reserved characters while Elizabeth is one of the most boisterous and vocal female characters in all of classical literature, as far as I can tell! This week I've definitely been in the Elinor/Anne camp - so much intense emotion but feeling that there's never a good time to share it...thanks to Descartes and Pixie for giving me space and permission to let it out.

I've been on a bit of a Jane Austen kick lately, so this came to my attention at an opportune time. She created strong women who were still so feminine, so unmistakably feminine! Can you tell I'm a bit preoccupied with femininity? Well, read my first entry if you need to get caught up.

Take the quiz here...and thanks to Pixie for the idea!

The Apron

Oh dear, rehearsals have started for the show I'm directing, and you can see how easily I begin to neglect my other avenues of creative expression! Three weeks away from the blog...hopefully I'll be able to keep up a little better from now on.

The apron seems to be making a comeback - to me it's a symbol of reclaimed femininity, domesticity as a source of yin-empowerment. My mother's generation had to set their femininity aside in order to be heard, acknowledged, and respected in the world of men. They had to fracture themselves somewhat - all grey flannel and pressed poplin at work, cotton and denim on the weekends to tend hastily to domestic tasks. I do not remember my mother in a dress, ever. She was working 60-hour weeks and traveling almost all the time - there was little time for "fussy" stylings. While I am grateful for the hard-won battles of the women's-libbers, I also feel it is my generation's dharma to come back into balance, honoring and integrating the yang-masculine and the yin-feminine energies within us. Oddly enough, I find this integration most visible in current fashion trends - lacy tops, flirty blouses and even dainty short dresses atop rough-and-tumble jeans and sexy heels. But inside as well, something is being reclaimed by us that, I hope, will not so easily be put down again.

I found my first adult apron at Anthropologie (a store that I love for its absolutely feminine take on even the most mundane clothing) a few months ago, and I wear it whenever I can. I plan to make a few aprons this year, to give to the women in my life. I hope they find their aprons imbued with the same soft power I have - the power to get done what needs to get done, without setting aside a little flounce and lace here and there.

What makes you feel your feminine power?

My Antiques Collection

At some point in my youth my mother decided I would collect music boxes. Actually, I don't remember if she chose that completely on her own or if I indicated at some point that I wanted to and she ran with it. When I was young, it seemed that everyone in my family collected something - it was seen as a part of your personality, and an easy tip for gift-giving. So throughout my childhood and teen years I received music boxes of all sorts, eventually honing in on those that played show tunes to match my love of musical theatre. There's one that plays "The Impossible Dream" and another that tings out "Hello, Dolly!" By the time I left home to strut my stuff on the Great White Way, I'd outgrown my collection so they drifted into the back of my mind, into a box in my parents' garage. Recently I came across them and wondered what I should do with them. Even though I don't want to keep a collection of music boxes, they've become somewhat sentimental to me.

I've never really understood the collector's mindset - what compels someone to collect hundreds of tiny Hummel figurines, or porcelain dolls with spookily vacant faces, or antique cookie jars? I don't have any judgment about it - actually I think it's kind of neat, but I've never felt the pull to have one of my own. I often wondered if there was anything I would someday grow to love enough to start a collection.

Last week a friend of mine taught me how to knit. We met at this yarn shop and spent some time perusing the miles and miles of gorgeous yarns from all corners of the world, spun into dizzyingly beautiful skeins and stacked in racks that rose above our heads. Although there were thousands of choices, I knew as soon as I felt the soft nubby chenille yarn in shades of plum, lavender and charcoal that it was to be my first project. Giddy and proud, I bought my first skein and set of needles, and we went back to her studio for the lesson. She was patient and encouraging - a great foil for my perfectionist and judge; they could barely get a word in edgewise with her positive coaxing! I learned the stitch, very slowly and clumsily at first but then with growing ease and comfort. We chatted about all sorts of things until it was time to go.

That night I sat knitting, and thinking about the "hobbies" that feel most important to me now - gardening, cooking, baking, sewing, knitting, slowing down - and I thought to myself, maybe this is my collection. I'm collecting antique skills, special tasks passed down from woman to woman for centuries. They speak the ancient feminine, the womanly arts that have kept families clothed, fed, and nurtured for so long.

These skills have been dying over the last century, since industry and convenience became more desirable than true craft and patience. I've grown up in a generation that largely doesn't know how clothing gets made, or food or the beautiful decorations that fill Target and Ikea. I forget that once upon a time people crafted their own, and grew up knowing how to do it because they had to. We don't have to anymore, but perhaps we should. The pendulum is swinging back to center. What were once cast aside as limiting and demeaning women's work in the feminist era are being reclaimed as links to our long feminine ancestry. As I stitch or knead or mend or tend, I am enlivening ancient knowledge.

Bowing Down To My Domestic Goddess(es)

I'm constantly intrigued and a bit surprised by my own pull toward the pleasures of nourishing old-fashioned food and down-home domesticity. I was raised in the heyday of the Women's Lib movement, by a mother who shed her domestic life licketysplit for a high-powered advertising career, and taught me volumes about how to make it in the working world. Her advice did not go unheeded - with my own successful business and fulfilling work, I have never shied away from the challenge of making a damn good career out of what I love to do. It has always been my area of greatest comfort and experience, while the tub went uncleaned for years at a time and the fridge was stocked with Trader Joe's packaging and takeout leftovers.

But I have heard the siren call deep in my belly to slow down and bury my hands in the the soil (and products of the soil). I remember in high school watching "Flashback" with my mother and being inexplicably, psychotically aware of a deep need to bake bread right then and there. Had I ever actually baked bread before, I would have known not to start such a project at 11:30pm (and if my mother knew this secret wisdom she should have told me). But no matter, I mixed and kneaded that bread with fervor, woke by my alarm at 2-hour intervals during the night to punch down the living cushion of dough, and rose at 6am to set my inaugural loaves to the fire. Although the initial product better served as doorstops than sandwiches, I never forgot the primal satisfaction of that experience. It has surfaced again over the years, though my drive to succeed in business has usually taken the front seat while baking, gardening, spring cleaning and homekeeping have been relegated to the trunk.

That is, until recently. Over the last year I have found myself journeying to feed this deep, primal place inside, answering the cry of Hestia, goddess of hearth and home to be expressed through me. She doesn't want to wait any longer, and I feel the time is ripe to embody her more and more. What this looks like, I can't be sure just yet. It does involve more bread-baking (which has improved greatly since 1989) and more...the making of traditional, whole, nourishing foods...the satisfying freshness of sun-dried bedsheets...the addition of homegrown rosemary and thyme, and in the summer, tomatoes and squash...the enjoyment of nurturing our family as it grows...the deepening of my conversations with Gaia (earth), Hestia (home), and Eileithyia (motherhood)...and probably other gifts that I can't even imagine.

All of this, humbly submitted in posts about adventures in homemade marmalade, cat poop in the garden, and tips for how to clean way-overdue bathtub grout. I'm not at all sure how this blog of mine will turn out, but it seems like a fun way to chronicle my journey home. Thanks for witnessing and joining me.